


Alaska Chapters 1-5

by kaitlia777



Series: Alaska [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-26
Updated: 2010-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:19:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaitlia777/pseuds/kaitlia777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A murder in rural Alaska takes the BAU out of their element and into the frozen North.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alaska Chapters 1-5

The flashing blue and white lights atop the Jeep bathed the clearing in haunting shades of shadow and light. The howl of biting winds didn't help settle the nerves of the young man standing huddled near the thin yellow crime scene tape he had stung up only minutes ago. Silently, he prayed the snow held off, at least until his superior officer arrived.

To Deputy Harry Finn's immense relief, he soon saw the bright headlights approaching in the distance and scant minutes later, another Fort Yukon Police department jeep slid to a stop on the icy ground. The headlights helped those from his own illuminate the area, as the two front doors opened, and Harry gave a wave to his colleagues.

Sheriff Richard Lake, a tall, striking, 40ish man of native descent, exited the drivers side, big, warm boots crunching on the icy crust that had formed atop the snow during the brief hours since the last storm had passed. Used to the winter's chill, his face was still visible, not hidden by a muffler or goggles, as it would have been had the snow fall begun again.

From the passenger side, Deputy Dani Winchester, laden with a pack of crime scene equipment that, at times, seemed nearly as big as her, appeared. At 27, she was few years Harry's senior and she had grown up in the department, her late father being the Sheriff until his death five years earlier. Unlike Lake and Finn himself, she was mixed race, slightly fairer skinned and blue eyed, so her cheeks had taken a fetching rosy hue as the wind buffeted her face.

"What've we got?" Lake questioned, stepping past the tape as the first few flakes began to fall. Dani made a disgruntled noise and dropped her heavy kit by the tape, pulling a camera from inside her coat as she picked her way carefully to the body to get photos before the snow obscured it.

Finn looked at his CO and said, "I have no idea. Never seen anything like it."

"Get the tall markers out of my bag," Dani called back to them. "Mark off each of those footprints. I'll cast them when the snow stops."

Having seen her recover snow covered footprints with the help of a leaf blower, spray paint and Sulfur casting, neither of them questioned the directive and quickly compiled. Harry hung back while Lake approached the body.

What he saw shocked him.

"Christ," he breathed, eyes roaming over the bare, mostly skinless body. "What could of done that?"

The body lay on the snow, bare and curled into itself almost a defensive posture. The skin was gone, looking worn off,   
and the visible muscle and bone had odd striated patterns and patches. The ridges of the spinal column liked wrong, almost blunted and strangely smooth.

From her spot crouched by the corpse, Dani looked up at Lake and said, "Belt Sander."

He blinked in shock and looked down at his deputy. The younger woman was still facing him, and he was surprised to see all color had drained from her face. "Seen this before?" he questioned, though he wasn't sure when she would have. He had been on the job before she came back from college to join the department.

Still looking sick, DanI swallowed and nodded. "Fifteen years ago," she said. "Dad's case. He used to go over his files at the kitchen table at night. I always wanted to help…."

Fifteen years was a few before Lake joined the department, so it was no wonder he didn't recognize what was obviously a pretty clear MO. "Any idea who did it back then?"

"No," she shook her head, then straightened. "We need to get the body into storage, then call the FBI. If this is the same guy, he's just getting started."

************************************************************************

It is the youth who must inherit the tribulation, the sorrow... that are the aftermath of war. -- Herbert Hoover

 

November 3, 2009

Love, money, sex or drugs. These four words sum up the motives for 99% of homicides anywhere. Sometimes there was some overlap, but rarely did one find a murder that couldn't be linked, fairly clearly, to one of these motives. But occasionally, that 1% of not easily categorized murder would occur. Local police, despite their skills and dedication, would be stumped.

That was when, at least within the United States, the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was called in. The U.S. Marine Corps base at Quantico, Virginia housed, among other federal and military facilities, the FBI training and development division. It was within that complex, situated within 400 acres of woodlands and called the Facility by those in the know, where the men and women of the BAU were based.

They'd come a long way since the units inception, when no one thought it was possible to analyze deviant minds and uses what was learned to build profiles that could help catch other offenders. Back then, the unit, which consisted of less than a handful of men had been relegated to a dreary room in the basement, their superiors watching, waiting for them to fail.

But, to everyone's surprise but their own, they had succeeded. The present BAU was housed in one of the facilities bland, concrete buildings, the offices sleek, modern studies in grey and tones, with plenty of glass doors and metal accents. The unit was staffed by several small teams of closely knit men and women, whose job it was to provide behavioral based investigative and/or operational support by applying case experience, research, and training to complex and time-sensitive crimes, typically involving acts or threats of violence. The program areas addressed include Crimes Against Children, Crimes Against Adults, Communicated Threats, Corruption, and Bombing and Arson Investigations. The BAU receives requests for services from Federal, state, local, and international law enforcement agencies. Response to these requests for BAU assistance are facilitated through the network of field NCAVC coordinators. BAU services are provided during on-site case consultations, telephone conference calls, and/or consultations held at the BAU with case investigators.

Sorting through the requests for her teams assistance, fell upon the capable shoulders of Supervisory Special Agent Jennifer Jareau, JJ to her friends, who served as communications director/media relations/local law enforcement liaison for the team. A young, fresh faced blond, she didn't look the part of the steely professional her colleagues knew her to be. Often, earlier in her career, she had been able to use her disarmingly sweet looks to deter an angry police officer or a persistent reporter, but as she grew into her position and became a bit better know, people were getting savvy to her tricks.

Arriving at what used to be her typically early hour (she'd begun coming in a bit later with the rest of the team after the birth of her son, Henry, who was spending the week in Louisiana with his father, visiting Will's family.), she entered her office, small purse and large coffee in hand. Already she could see a few faxes sitting in the in tray of her machine, waiting for her attention. Placing her drink and bag down, she scooped up the ream of paper and place it on her desk, settling into her chair to begin going over what she knew would be unpleasantness. But sadly, most of the typical horrors and atrocities a man could inflict on another man didn't shock her too badly anymore.

Occasionally though, a case would come across her desk that made her reconsider her seen it all and got the t-shirt point of view. Words would jump off the page as if on display at a 3D IMAX theatre. This was one of those times.

HOMICIDE…SAME MO AS UNSOLVED SERIAL CASE 15 YEARS AGO…VICTIM ALIVE A TIME FLESH AND MUSCLE IS WORN OFF BODY WITH ELECTRIC BELT SANDER…DUMPED IN SNOW FIELD….

Going over the police file on the recent death, JJ then flipped to the copies of the homicides from 1994. There were sixteen in total. Four from each of four Alaskan bush towns. In '94, the killings had started in Fort Yukon, where this fresh body had been discovered the previous evening. If the pattern repeated itself, they were in for a hellish month.

Normally, getting local police departments to request help from the FBI was like pulling teeth from an un-sedated great white shark. But Richard Lake, Fort Yukon's chief of police was, quite politely, asking for their assistance.

A grim sense of foreboding settling over her, she gathered up the files and quickly made her way through the still dimmed bull pen, up the stairs to Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner's office. The Unit Chief's door and blinds were closed, but light crept out around the edges, indicating the man had either arrived earlier than she herself had, or he had never gone home the night before.

She rapped on the heavy door, cracked it open slightly and said, "Hotch?"

Seated at his desk, reviewing paperwork of his own, Hotchner looked up at the sound of her voice and waved her in. "Good morning, JJ," he greeted her politely, but she knew he was all too aware of what would bring her knocking at his door at this hour.

In his tidy, understated office, dressed in a typically immaculate navy suit, crisp white shirt and navy/pewter tie, he seemed more a business executive than the exceptional profiler he was. His grave demeanor was a reflection of how seriously he took the responsibility of their jobs and the dedication he gave to the bureau. It was that dedication that had cost him his family, as, unable to tolerate the stress of his job any longer, his wife Haley had filed for divorce. They were trying to be amicable, for their young son Jack's sake.

More than anything, JJ hoped the job didn't drive away her own little family. She had some hope though. Her son's father, her partner (for wont of a better word), was a police officer himself. He had some real understanding of what she did, the pressures she faced. Hell, he'd even upended his life, transferring from the New Orleans PD to a smaller force in Virginia to be near her and Henry.

But it was not a time for melancholic musings.

"We've got a case," she informed him, stepping into the room and placing the files down on his desktop. "Fort Yukon, Alaska. They've had a homicide that matches a very distinct MO of an UNSUB who disappeared after 16 kills 15 years ago."

One of Hotchner's sharp brows rose as he scanned the file with a speed and thoroughness that one only acquired after years of practice. Looking up at JJ, his face was even more morose than usual. "Call the team. Tell them to pack warm clothes," he told her, rising decisively from his desk.

Jareau nodded, agreeing that it would be a better use of time to brief the team on the jet rather than wasting precious hours in the conference room. As she reached the door, Hotch called out, "JJ, tell Garcia she's coming with us."

Pausing with a question on her face, JJ looked back at Hotch, who continued, "We need to be able to get in touch with her. I'd imagine cell coverage up there is not optimal."

"Got it," JJ said with a nod and continued on her way. She'd call the team, then Will and let him know she'd be out of town for a few days at least. Then she'd have to go pack. And check the weather report for Fort Yukon, Alaska. Early November in the Artic Circle was probably quite chilly.

************************************************************************

Cruel and cold is the judgment of man, Cruel as winter, and cold as the snow; But by-and-by will the deed and the plan Be judged by the motive that lieth below.--   
Lewis J. Bates

 

The first leg of the flight, Dulles to Fairbanks International Airport, appropriately located in Fairbanks, Alaska was fairly routine. True, when they landed there was snow on the ground, but the flight itself was nothing out of the ordinary, even with Garcia, who truly seemed to enjoy her rare outings on the jet, aboard. The team reviewed the case files and all the notes Sheriff Lake sent down wit this request.

November 1994. Fort Yukon, now a comparatively bustling metropolis of 742 people, had a population of 487 people. On a cold, but sunny afternoon, two high school students, Peter Caffery and James Chigliak, had their day ruined when they happened upon the body of Ruth Keyes. Of course, at the time, they had no idea it was Ruth they had stumbled across. In fact, they hadn't even been sure the remains were human. Spooked, they had reported what they found to the sheriff.

Back then, Sheriff Michael Winchester had been the Fort Yukon Police Department. They didn't have a lot of crime, some juvenile delinquents a few domestic disputes and fights. Winchester hadn't seen a murder during the entire time he'd been sheriff, just a few accidental or natural deaths. What Peter and James had led him to changed all of that.

The body had been lying by a snow bank, naked and in a fetal position, a defensive posture that had obviously failed. Weeks later, after the FBI had been called in and brought with them a forensic pathologist (No offense to the ME of Fort Yukon at the time, but he was the towns doctor, not a specialist), it was found that the position of the body was actually due to muscle contractions caused by what must have been excruciating pain as Ruth and all the other victims were skinned alive. Small surface area of flesh by small area. With a belt sander. When enough of the skin was worn down, the UNSUB started in on his victims muscle tissue.

When the UNSUB finished with his victim, he would dump her in an isolated area, which there were plenty of. A few of his victims weren't found until the spring thaw, as the many severe storms that were so common of the region covered them before they could be located.

All in all, this UNSUB killed sixteen women before suddenly stopping. Four in Fort Yukon, four in Venetie, four in Kobuk and four in Bettles. November, December, January, February. Then nothing.

Until a pair of kids. looking for a secluded place to park so they could do a bit of fooling around, pulled into a field and their headlights illuminated a grisly sight. Another body.

The team spent most of the flight floating theories around as to the motives and drives of such a killer. They had brought with them copies of the FBI teams investigation, which Max Ryan, one of the founders of the BAU had been a part of. There hadn't   
been a glut of physical evidence, just the bodies and a few footprints, but they had been in the snow and not well preserved.

Landing at Fairbanks International, the team, laden with bags of equipment and cold weather gear, made their way across the terminal, far less of a mad house than they were used to, to the gate Penstlatala Air, Inc. departed from. Sitting at a small counter by the door were an pair of young people, a blond man and a tall, native woman. Both were in their twenties and seemed cheerful, despite the light snow fall visible through the window behind them. As was the plane that would take them to Fort Yukon.

"Ummm," technical analyst Penelope Garcia said, unusual hesitance in her voice, "where's the rest of the plane?"

The unhappy frown on the usually happy, quirky techs face let the rest of the team know that she was suddenly regretting coming along on this particular trip. The zaftig blond was already bundled up in a heavily lined tweed coat, scarf and gloves, but there was a slight chill in the air, even inside. This did not bode well for what the temperature was outside.

Beside her, helping lug some of her computer equipment, FBI BAU Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan smiled. "Baby girl, I think that's it."

Clad in heavy dark trousers and a black North Face parka, Morgan, a tall, athletic African American in his mid-thirties, looked like he might have been getting ready to pose for Powder magazine, not investigate a grisly murder. A grad of Northwestern Law, he was the teams specialist on obsessional crimes, he had been in the unit for a number of years and it was known that the Bureau considered him a candidate for advancement. But that would mean a transfer, something he didn't have an interest in at the moment.

"That's a Cessna 208B Caravan, which can carry 9 passengers or up to 2700 lbs. of freight. We should be okay," FBI BAU Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid piped up from where he and FBI BAU Supervisory Special Agent Emily Prentiss were peering at the small snack kiosk.

The unit's youngest agent was a font of the oddest information. With big brown eyes and longish brown hair, lanky Reid looked more like an undergrad than any FBI agent should, but he had proven himself time and time again over the years. In a warm parka that looked, like most of Reid's clothes, as if it had come from a second hand store, his purple scarf tight around his neck and a knit cap snug on his head, he seemed unperturbed by the strange new surroundings they found themselves in.

Conversely, Prentiss wore a neat, emerald green Columbia parka and dark, water resistant pants. Her gloves, hat and scarf were all black fleece that nearly matched her long dark hair. A veteran traveler since childhood, this was her first trip above the Artic Circle and had listened to Reid's trivia about the place with some interest. Purchasing a small package of crackers, she looked at the plane and shrugged. "Don't worry about it, Garcia. I've been on smaller."

The final member of the team, FBI BAU Senior Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi, ignored the plane and made his way over to the counter. Fiftyish, his hair still dark and goateed, Rossi had been one of the founding fathers of the BAU, back when they called it the Behavioral Sciences Unit. He had retired and gone on to write wildly popular books about his experiences, but when Jason Gideon had suddenly departed, Rossi returned.

"Excuse me," he said, catching the attention of the two young people who were still chatting at the counter. "We called ahead about a flight to Fort Yukon."

"Oh, Yes," the young man replied, opening an old fashioned ledger book and thumbing through it. "You'd be the FBI folks then."

The woman, in jeans and a red fleece pullover with the company logo on it, stuck out her hand. "Hi. Abby Whirlwind. I'll be taking you out. We're refueling, so it'll be just a few minutes."

The fact that their pilot looked even younger than Reid made Rossi feel old.

"You're the pilot?" Hotch questioned, obviously thinking the same thing.

She grinned and traded looks with the guy. "Going on five years now," she laughed. "Family business, you know."

"Seriously, are we all going to fit on that?" Garcia still looked horrified at the prospect of getting on the small plane.

Their pilot nodded. "She holds nine, like your friend said. Plenty of room."

"Isn't there anything a bit bigger?"

Obviously, this was not an unusual reaction. "Despite having the word international in it's name, this place is petty small. About 60% of our flights are air taxi, 37% general aviation and 3% military. There are 16 aircraft based at this airport: 85% single engine and 15% multi-engine. There's only an average of 33 flights per day."

All right, so she knew her stuff. "You two from around here, or one of the towns you fly out to?" this question was from Morgan obviously in hopes of distracting Garcia.

"Here," they chorused, and the guy continued, "I could never give up big city life, ya know."

The city of Fairbanks had a population of 35,132 people according to the 2008 census. Compared to D.C., with it's 599,831, it seemed a bit small, but for rural Alaska, it was a hub.

And they were leaving that hub, bound for a tiny town with a big problem.  
*********************************************************************

Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

The flight to Fort Yukon hadn't been a long one and, much to Garcia's relif, had been quite smooth despite the light snow that persisted throughout most of the trip. The team had been able to ask a number of questions of their pilot, who seemed content to chat and who, despite being a self-professed city girl, knew a lot about the goings on in Fort Yukon.

Fort Yukon was first established as Fort Youcon by Alexander Hunter Murray as a Hudson's Bay Company trading post in 1847. While the post was actually in Russian America, the Hudson's Bay Company continued to trade there until expelled by the American traders in 1869, following the Alaska Purchase when the post was taken over by the Alaska Commercial Company. A post office was established on July 12, 1898 with John Hawksly as its first postmaster, but the settlement suffered over the following decades as a result of several epidemics and a 1949 flood. During the 1950s, the United States Air Force established a base and radar station at Fort Yukon; the town was officially incorporated in 1959.

The town was located at 66°34'2″N 145°15'23″W﻿ / ﻿66.56722°N 145.25639°W﻿ / 66.56722; -145.25639 (66.567586, -145.256327), on the north bank of the Yukon River at its junction with the Porcupine River, about 145 air miles northeast of Fairbanks. Just 8 miles (13km) south of the town is the Artic Circle.

When they landed at Fort Yukon Airport, the snow had just stopped and it looked as though the gravel runway had been plowed moments earlier. A quartet of vehicles, one brown SUV with police markings, a smaller, red SUV and two blue trucks, all with plow blades attached to the front ends, idled by the side of the runway, warm engines preventing the snow from building up on the hoods.

After shutting down the plane, Abby rose and said, "Thanks for flying Penstlatala Air. Give us a buzz when you're ready to head out of here."

Then she popped open the door, lowered the stairs and descended to open the luggage/cargo area. As she did this, the drivers side door of the four trucks opened and each disgorged a warmly dressed figure.

As the BAU team, led by Hotchner, made their way down the stairs to the frosty runway, Abby paused and waved. "Hi, Harry!" she shouted over the wind, "Got your guests here in one piece."

"Never doubted you!" the man, Harry, who had exited the police vehicle, shouted back. He and the other three men were wrestling something off of the bed of one of the trucks. It took a moment, in the dusky light and whipping wind, for Hotch to recognize their burden as a body bag strapped to a back board.

"You're flying the body out?" Hotchner asked Whirlwind, who was busily pulling out their baggage from amidst various other boxes and crates.

She nodded, bobbed hair flying around her face, partially obscuring his view of her dark eyes. "Doctor Riley isn't equip to deal with this sorta thing," she said quietly, leaning in close as she pushed his bag into his hands. "The ME's office in Fairbanks will have someone waiting for the body when I land. That's how it works up here when someone needs an autopsy."

"I just don't have the facilities," a man in a red parka said as the four approached with the back board held between them.

Brown coat-- Harry-- peered into the plane's hold. "You making' a delivery?"

She nodded. "Leo and Hamish are supposed to be here, but you know how they are."

There were rumbles of acknowledgement and disgruntlement from the locals and Harry nodded over to the BAU team. "Deputy Harry Finn," he greeted them. "Thanks for coming."

"SSA Aaron Hotchner," the unit chief said, then indicated each of his team in turn. "SSA's David Rossi, Derek Morgan, Dr. Spencer Reid, Emily Prentiss, Jennifer Jareau and technical analyst Penelope Garcia."

Finn nodded pleasantly. "This here's Dr. Mike Riley, Jim Chigliak and my brother in law Tom Dyer. Doc's here with the body, and, well, we didn't know how many of you there was going to be, so they agreed to come drive where you need to go. No enough room in my car, plus daylights fading. Sheriff's trying to round up folks, figure out who this is and Dani's out at the crime   
scene."

Hotchner nodded. "Garcia, why don't you set up at the sheriff's office. Morgan, take Prentiss and Reid and go to the crime scene. JJ, Rossi, we'll go meet the sheriff."

******************************************************************************************

The extended cab of Tom Dyer's pick up truck was thankfully roomy enough for all four of them, as it was not the time of year to be riding in the truck bed. On the way, he spoke sparingly, but what he said was informative. Even though the people in town didn't know the specifics of the crime, everyone was spooked. And now that the FBI had arrived, panic would set in. Everyone remembered the last time Federal Agents had visited their town.

Normally, they would have had their own rental SUV, but they were thankful not to have to attempt to drive on the icy, snow covered roads. Additionally, the crime scene was located off the beaten path and would have been very hard to find for a non local.

"Connor and Nancy stopped for a little alone time and found…what they did," Dyer sighed as the parked, sheriff's SUV came into sight. "Poor kids…never gonna forget that. Jimmy and Peter sure didn't."

From the back of the cab Reid said, "Jim Chigliak was one of the teens who found the first body during the original killings."

Chigliak had agreed to drive Garcia back to the police station while Finn brought the others to see the Sheriff. He hadn't said much, seemed a bit shaky as he didn't look at the body bag he had helped load it onto the plane.

Dyer nodded. "We were 'bout the same age and what they saw changed them. Pete died a few years later, car accident and Jimmy…is haunted."

The trunk of the SUV was propped open, crated of equipment easily accessible. Several large blue tarps with mounds of snow piled atop them were in a neat line beside the crime scene tape. A woman stood from a crouch by a small ditch in the snow and waved at them.

He stopped the truck beside he SUV and said, "That's Dani Winchester."

"Thanks for the ride," Prentiss said to Dyer as they piled out of his truck.

The local man nodded. "Just find this guy."

The temperature was probably somewhere in the mid teens, the wind chill dropping it even lower, but Deputy Winchester wore jeans, a University of Alaska Fairbanks sweatshirt, uniform shirt peeking out above the collar, service weapon at her hip and gloves. Her brown hair was braided, but hard work and exertion had allowed many locks to escape the confines and lay against her flushed red face.

"You folks with the FBI?" she asked as they ducked under the tape to approach. "Stay in the shoveled track please. Right now, the snows preserving any evidence, but kick it around and it becomes a liability."

Morgan reached her first. "Derek Morgan," he said, shaking the offered palm. "Agent's Emily Prentiss and Spencer Reid."

"Dani Winchester," she said gravely, looking them over and pausing on Reid, who looked about a strong wind away from visibly shivering.

Gazing around the scene, Prentiss asked, "This scene is very….I don't really know how to categorize this."

"Did the UNSUB leave any evidence behind?" Reid questioned, though he too looked around and saw only lots and lots of snow as well. The scenes fifteen years earlier had been fairly clean, but forensics had evolved over the years.

Also at a loss, Morgan was surprised when Winchester said, "Quite a bit, yes. Foot prints and tire marks and blood droplets leading away from and toward them. The sulfur casts will have set by now."

"You don't use dental stone?" The question was from Reid, who carefully followed the Deputy over to one of several ditches dug in the snow.

"Detail's better with sulfur, plus it cures much quicker," she informed them, reaching down and picking up an impression of a boot print. "With dental stone, you have to mix in potassium sulfate and the reaction generates enough heat to melt the snow and ruin the impression."

"Any idea what time the body was dumped?" Prentiss asked, peering at the casting with interest. Winchester handed it to her, then bent to retrieve another.

Winchester rolled her neck, then pointed off beyond the crime scene tape. "Usually, during the few hours of light we have this time of year, this place is lousy with snowmobilers," she informed them. "Sometimes even until dusk, but after dark it gets dead. We're fairly sure she was left out after sundown."

Turning the mold over in his hands, Morgan had to admit, the detail on the impression was impressive. He looked around in the fading light and tried to see what the UNSUB must have seen as he dumped the body.

The area was remote, but kids often came out here to go parking. Not the most easily accessible of places, some sort of all terrain vehicle or large truck would be necessary to transport the body to the dump site. In the dark, it would be a dangerous place to venture if one was unfamiliar with the territory.

But he knew this place. Felt safe and sure of the anonymity provided by the solitude for his task, but often enough used that the body was sure to be discovered before too long. The perfect place to leave the body….

"I can also tell you the bastard's wearing new boots," the deputy said with a huff, nodding at the pair of prints. "See how sharp and defined the tread pattern is. No wear and tear."

If they were an uncommon brand, that could help track the UNSUB and even if they were the most common boot in the state, the individual tread pattern could be compared when they found a suspect. Adding this fact to what little they knew to be true of the UNSUB, Morgan looked up when he heard Prentiss say, "Reid, your lips are turning blue."

The cold was getting to Morgan too, and he was originally from Chicago, where snow and cold winds were not unheard of. Prentiss had grown up all around the world, had experienced many climates. Reid had spent the majority of his life in Las Vegas, a city built in the desert.

His arms wrapped tightly around his torso, it was obvious the younger man was trying to will his muscles not to shiver. His face was pale, save the wind burnt red nose and cheeks and blue tinged lips. Despite this, he too was inspecting the scene, a consummate professional even in his misery.

Winchester blinked at him, then stuck a hand into the pouch pocket on the front of her sweatshirt. Withdrawing her keys, she held them out to Reid. "There's a warm jacket and a few thermal blankets in the backseat," she said with a gentle smile. "A better hat too. Need to keep your head warm to conserve heat. Hot coffee in the thermos in the insulated carrier. Close the trunk."

Seeing Reid looking like he was about to protest, Prentiss reached around him and accepted the keys. "Thank," she said, the caught one of Reid's arms. "Come on, before go hypothermic on us."

"Turn on the headlights for me, please," Winchester called after them, then looked at Morgan. "All I have left to do is grab the cast of the tire tracks and pack up my stuff. You can wait in the truck with them if you like."

A particularly harsh gust of wind eroded the last of Morgan's own reserve and he nodded. "Anything I can carry out for you?"

As she began picking her way carefully around piles of snow, over to the last sulfur casting, Winchester said, "You can take the snow dispersal device by my kit, if you like."

Morgan looked down at the forensics kit, collapsible shovel and…leaf blower? "The leaf blower?" he called to her and heard the soft snort carry over the snow.

"Yup."

Hefting the blower, Morgan shook his head, unsure what the device had been used for. Reid would probably know. He'd ask him when he got in the truck.

Which is exactly what he did.

But, contrary to the usual outcome of such a thing, Reid didn't know. He said as much from the backseat, where he was huddled under a blanket with Prentiss, who had joined him after starting the truck and cranking the heat. For a moment, Morgan considered climbing back there with them, but reigned in the impulse.

He settled on asking them to pass the coffee.

Almost fifteen minutes late, the barest hint of light still in the sky, Winchester hopped into the drivers seat, having stowed all her evidence and gear. Stripping off her gloves, she held her hands in front of one of the heaters and briskly rubbed them together. Eyes sliding toward them, she said, "Bit chilly, eh?"

Her ears were a deep, ruddy shade of red that sent a new series of chills down Morgan's spine. Trying not to look at the little lobes, he offered her the thermos. "Coffee?"

"God yes," she said, accepting it and taking a deep draft, before sitting back and saying, "Okay, ready to head to HQ?"

Far warmer than the bitter cold outside, the interior of the car was still not the sort of place that would allow the chilled FBI agents to thaw out. The thoughts of a warm station house were obviously pleasing and her question was met with a resounding, "Yes."

Careful of the icy conditions, she eased the SUV into motion and tossed Morgan a look out of the corner of her eye. "It could be worse," she informed him, seemingly offhandedly. "A few of the crime scenes were inaccessible by car the last time. They had to use sled dogs and ski-doos."

In the silence that followed that statement, there was a tiny muffled groan.

************************************************************************

An association of men who will not quarrel with one another is a thing which has never yet existed, from the greatest confederacy of nations down to a town meeting or a vestry.   
Thomas Jefferson

 

Deputy Finn drove Hotch, Rossi and JJ not to the Sherriff's station, but to the town rec center. Apparently, Sherriff Lake had called a town meeting there, in hopes of identifying who the body might be. As they pulled into the parking lot, which was full of trucks, SUV's and other winter ready vehicles, Finn said, "Folks might not all show up, though, not if they live too far from town. Weather's been bad, so it's not so easy to get in here, even for this sort of thing."

Exiting the vehicle, they were almost immediately assaulted by voices, most of whom were calling out inquiries to the deputy. He waved them into the building, assuring them that the Sherriff would tell them what they wanted to know inside. Most of them heeded his advice, but a pretty young woman lingered by the car, her red rimmed eyes ghosting over the federal agents before locking on Finn.

"Lexie didn't come home last night, Harry," the woman said in a quavering voice. She was petite, but body type was difficult to pin down due to the heavy winter gear she wore. Her skin was very pale, but for the eyes, which were faintly red as though she had been rubbing at them. "Everyone's saying it's happening again, the killings, like when we were kids…."

Stepping forward, Hotchner drew the young woman's attention to himself and said, "Miss, I'm Agent Hotchner with the BAU. Would it be all right if we asked you a few questions?"

She blinked at him and shook her head in confusion. "BAU?"

"FBI, Mady," Finn said, then caught her arm as she staggered a step back.

"Oh God," she wheezed, worried gaze morphing into panic and darting from one agent to the next. "Oh God, it happened, didn't it? You found a body. Oh God, Lexie…."

Her legs seemed to give out and she sank toward the hard packed snow beneath their feet. The grip Finn had on her arm kept her from collapsing completely and he scrambled to haul her upright.

As the deputy literally picked the woman up and sat her on the hood of a nearby car, Hotchner exchanged a look with JJ and Rossi. If the fear and panic Mady was displaying was any indication of the town's state of mind concerning the prospect of another murder spree, things were not looking good.

The crowd inside the rec center was little better, milling about in agitation, the sound of spreading rumors and fear several decibels above a murmur. Families stood in tight groups, spouses linked at the hands, parents clutching their children close, much to the disgruntlement of many teens.

It only took a few seconds for their arrival to register with the mob, an a ripple passes through the room, turning heads and silencing half finished conversations. Deputy Finn, head down and arm protectively around Mady, led the way, paced hurried in an attempt to reach the sheriff before the assault of questions began.

Hotchner, Rossi and JJ trailed in his wake to the front of the room, where Lake stood, surrounded by a particularly pushy looking gathering. Unlike the rest of the room, none of them seemed inclined to move out of Finn's path and continued to block his way until Lake gave a huff and waded through them.

"Harry," he greeted his deputy and seemed about to nod to Hotchner, when he took note of Mady tucked into Finn's side. He raised a brow in question and his face fell when he read the younger man's expression. "Office."

Finn knew what he meant by that and quickly whisked the shaky woman off to the side and through a door way, securing the door behind them. Lake pointed to another door and said, "We can speak in there. Just let me say a few words to them."

Well aware they did not want to speak to the crowd just yet, the three FBI agents made their way toward the room indicated. Behind them, they heard, Lake shout over the reformed din.

"Okay, Folks, I know you're scared," the Sheriff was saying, "But pleases stay calm. I'm going to tell you what I can in a few minutes, but we want to wait for anyone else who might be coming to arrive. After all, you all are early. Now, try to take seats, have some coffee and I'll be back soon."

With that, he stepped into the side room where he had sent the BAU members. As he had spoken to the crowd, he had been steadily backing in their direction. He shut the door and turned to face them. "I really have no idea what to say to them. How am I supposed to tell them not to be afraid of this?"

A few years Hotchner's junior, Sheriff Lake looked like a man who spent a lot of his life smiling. His tanned skin was smooth, but for fine laugh lines around his eyes and mouth and his eyes, a shade of brown so deep they seemed nearly black, were kind. At the moment though, he carried the air of a troubled man, weighed down by the horror of a young woman's death and burdened with the responsibility of bringing her killer to justice. On top of that, it seemed that her killer might have gone uncaught in the past, had possibly terrorized this very town fifteen years earlier.

The terrified people out there depending on him were his friends, possibly family. That had to affect a person.

"You can't," Hotchner told him seriously. "It wouldn't matter if you did. They'd still be afraid. What you can do is assure them that we will do everything in our power to see that the UNSUB is caught and brought to justice."

"And I can help you talk with them," JJ said kindly, drawing the sheriff's bleak gaze to her. "There are things we can inform the public they should do to minimized the risk they could potentially be in."

"We also need to confirm that this is not a copycat killing," Rossi said, leaning his shoulder against the wall, near a second door that seemed to lead to the next room. "So far, we don't know for sure that this is the work of the same individual."

Lake heaved a sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face. "We'll take you back to the station after this and you can take a look at the original case files. There were details never released to the public and it's pretty clear whoever killed that young woman we found knew all about them. Plus, Dani was around for the original murders and she thought things looked the same."

"Dani is one of your officers." It was more statement than question, but Rossi felt the need to confirm the fact.

"My second in command," Lake replied, then winced a pained, somewhat rueful smile. "Though considering the department consists of Dani, Harry and myself, I suppose that's something like being the middle child in an odd family."

"All right," Hotchner said, then nodded toward the next room. "We'll need to speak with her, then, if her sister is missing, get DNA to match against the victim. JJ, help Sheriff Lake work up a statement."

The sound of the growing crowd in the main room could be heard through the walls. Every person in the small room knew the next few minutes would not be pleasant, not for anyone involved.

TBC

Review if you liked it!!


End file.
